The man, too far away for Kendric to distinguish detail of either
costume or features, was hardly more than a slinking shadow. But
almost with the first glimpse there came the quick suspicion that it
was Ruiz Rios. He saw something white in the man's hand; a
handkerchief since the gesture was one of wiping a wet forehead. And
on that slender evidence Kendric's belief established itself.
Zoraida's vacqueros would not carry white handkerchiefs; if they
carried any sort at all they would probably be red or yellow or blue;
or, if white originally, they would not be kept so snowy as to flash
like that one. And the gesture itself, once the thought had come to
him, was vaguely suggestive of that slow grace in every movement that
was Rios's. The man might be anyone, conceivably even Barlow or Brace;
but in his heart Kendric knew it was Rios.
Lower than ever Kendric crouched in the shelter of the rock; steady and
unwinking and watchful did his eyes cling to the distant figure. He
made out after a long period of motionlessness another gesture; the
man's hands were up to his face; he was shading his eyes or studying
the mountainside with field glasses.
The latter probably.
The afternoon dragged on and for a long time neither man moved. At
last Rios, if Rios it was, withdrew a little, slipped behind a tree,
passed to another and disappeared. Kendric did not see him again
though he kept alert every instant.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276